


The First of May

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Circus, Clowns, Fluff, M/M, circus lingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a prestigious whiteface clown at the renowned Baker Circus, and John Watson is a doctor returning to the circus life as an Auguste clown following a traumatic accident from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I told my friend that I would write the most ridiculous AU she could think of, and here I am, writing a Sherlock clown AU. Please enjoy.

The light and chatter from the delighted crowds were extinguished as the mouth of the tent was pulled shut.  The darkness that enveloped the interior of the small tent felt charged with excitement as the members of the audience went still in anticipation.

A single spotlight beamed suddenly from above, illuminating a solitary cylinder of light in the centre of the round tent.  Standing regally in the harsh light was a man clad in a white straight tunic with pantalooned trousers and a ruffled collar, which were accented by slim black dancing slippers on his feet.  The skin of his hands was hidden by thin white gloves, while white paint covered his angular face.  His facial features, which included high, prominent cheekbones and full lips with sharp, intelligent eyes, were highlighted with black makeup, creating a severe contrast with the rest of his attire.  A white, traditional Pagliacci hat was perched jauntily on his head of dark curls - he wore no wig.

This man commanded the attention of the entire tent, though he hadn't even spoken yet; he stood in the spotlight as if he belonged there, completely at ease and taking no notice of the audience surrounding him.  He simply stood - tall and elegant, with careless grace.

The audience clapped politely, out of respect, but still he still failed to acknowledge them.

Suddenly, another clown ran out from behind the bleachers, another spotlight turning on to follow his progress into the centre of the ring.  This one was much shorter and scrawnier, his rat-like features noticeable even under the layers of bright red makeup and large fake nose.  He was clad in various articles of baggy clothing of different plaids and polka dots, and a multicoloured wig sat atop his small head.  He grinned and waved cheerfully at the audience, seemingly unaware of the coldness of the first clown, who shared none of his enthusiasm.  Jaunty music was playing from some unseen corner of the tent now to match the second clown's excitable attitude.

The short clown had nearly reached the centre when he tripped exaggeratedly, limbs flailing in every direction, earning him a grand rouse of laughter from the audience.  He feigned a look of shock before pushing himself back up to his feet, brushing himself off, and skipping to the middle of the tent.

The first clown ignored him, turning around and walking over to a bench that had a bucket of white paint and a paintbrush sitting next to it.  The bright clown was completely oblivious, still grinning and waving to the audience and occasionally almost falling over, waving his arms in huge circles in order to regain his balance.

The white clown picked up the paintbrush and painted across the bench.  When he was done, he set up a large sign next to the bench that said "CAUTION: WET PAINT" in large capital letters across the front, but when he set it up on the stand, the sign was upside down.  He then walked away.

The short clown strolled across the stage towards the bench, kicking his feet and swinging his arms.  By the time he reached the bench, he was demonstrating extreme exhaustion, dragging his feet and breathing heavily and pretending to wipe his brow.  His face lit up in obvious delight when he spotted the bench in front of him, and he marched over and sat right down on the middle of it.  The audience began to giggle, and a few children even yelled out "No!" or "The paint is wet, Mr. Clown!  Read the sign!"  The clown feigned confusion and acted as though he couldn't understand why the audience was reacting so.

The white clown strolled over, face impassive as ever, and stared at the other clown for a moment before reaching over and flipping over the upside-down "CAUTION: WET PAINT" sign.  The short clown leaped off of the bench and turned around, exposing his paint-covered backside to the audience, who roared with laughter.  His eyes were wide and his large hands covered his mouth, which was open in a huge "O" of shock.  The first clown remained indifferent and graceful, always seeming to be five steps ahead of the audience while the second clown seemed about the same number of steps behind.

The rest of the act continued in much of the same fashion.  The white clown strolled around the ring, witty and elegant, while the short clown stumbled around and got pies thrown at him and water squirted on his face, always seeming to be thoroughly enjoying himself and getting the audience excited.

By the end of the act, the audience applauded and cheered as the actors bowed.  The short clown did so with many twirls and swoops of his arms and hands, but the white clown's bow was a simple inclination at the waist.  The spotlights went off and the clowns disappeared into the dressing area before the main lights came on and the audience began to file out.

In the small adjoining tent that served as a dressing room, the white clown stormed directly up to a weary looking man with grey hair who was organising a mess of costumes on a rack.

"Lestrade, get Anderson out of here.  I told you, I can't work with him!" he spat, rounding on the grey-haired man.  The distaste on his sharp face was accentuated by the black and white makeup.  "Why would you assign him for the afternoon act when you know he crushes any sort of artistic spirit I may have simply by being present in the room?"

"Hey!" the short clown protested, crossing his arms in front of the baggy green and yellow striped vest he wore, but both Lestrade and the white clown ignored him.

"We've been over this, Sherlock," Lestrade said, rubbing the back of his neck wearily.  "The new workers don't start until May first, which is today, meaning that they won't even be close to ready to perform in any acts for another week, at the earliest.  And since Victor left, it's been nearly impossible to find another stand-in."

"But why did it have to be _him_?" Sherlock asked, pointing a long, gloved finger at  Anderson, who looked like a petulant child in a Halloween costume.  "I simply cannot work with him!  Couldn't you have found anybody else?"

"Nobody else would agree to work with you, Sherlock," replied Greg.  "You've managed to get on the bad side of every Auguste clown we have here at Baker Carnival.  Dimmock offered his fair share of profanities when I mentioned your name, and Anderson here was apparently the only one desperate enough to accept the offer.  After we offered him double the usual pay, that is."

"Just make sure I never have to perform with _him_ again," Sherlock snarled, waving his hand in Anderson's direction rather than having to look at him.

"Hey!" Anderson protested again.  "That was my best performance yet!  The audience loved me!"

"No, they didn't.  They loved watching you make a fool of yourself," Sherlock corrected him.  "And anyway, the audience are all imbeciles."

The white clown twirled on a black-slippered heel and made to stalk away, but Lestrade caught him by an elbow.

"Hey, you're not going anywhere," he said sternly, dragging him back into the cramped dressing room.

"And why not?" Sherlock asked indignantly, baffled.

"Because it's the first of May," Lestrade told him, "and that, as you know, is traditionally when training begins for our new workers."

"So?" Sherlock asked scathingly.

"So," Lestrade continued, "it's time for you to meet your new co-performer."

 

John Watson stood up from where he had been sitting on the uncomfortable wooden bleachers, stretching his arms over his head.  The other members of the audience were all exiting the tent, chattering happily with their families or friends, but John Watson was there with nobody.  He was used to being alone by then.

John had seen countless clown shows throughout his life.  He had always found them vaguely amusing and oddly set apart from real life inside those small tents, and this one wasn't very different.  Except for the whiteface clown.

This performer had managed to intrigue John Watson.  Most clowns were basically the same, all of them based off of the caricature of the role they were supposed to be playing in the act, but this whiteface seemed to have several more layers to his character under that white paint and elegant costume.  He was tall and graceful, and carried himself with self-confident elegance that made him seem untouchable or otherworldly.  Although he didn't speak a word throughout the whole show, he seemed to radiate intelligence and cleverness, along with his cool demeanour that separated him from the audience on yet another level.

Even while the Auguste clown was traipsing around in front of the audience with his loud clothing and exaggerated expressions, John was unable to pull his eyes from the less dynamic whiteface clown for the whole act.  He was silent and stunning, his slim form accentuated by his flowing costume as his perfect facial structure was emphasized by the contrasting black and white makeup.  John was absolutely entranced.

But the magic had ended when the spotlight turned off and the mysterious whiteface clown disappeared, and John found himself alone in a noisy world again.  And now he was supposed to track down a man named Gregory Lestrade.  John had received a letter from him about a month previously, in response to a job application John had submitted.  Lestrade had said that he looked very promising, and that they would be delighted to have him join the troupe, even though he seemed a bit overqualified for the job of an Auguste clown.  Lestrade said John might find the work a bit boring, but boring was fine with him.  The exhilaration of constantly being on the move in a travelling circus would be plenty.

John scratched his head, gazing around the empty tent and wondering where the bloody hell he was supposed to go.  He had had a hard enough time finding his way to this tent for the afternoon performance, even with the help of three maps and signposts and assistance from various staff members, and he dearly hoped he didn't have to stumble his way around this circus in the dark to find yet another tent that looked identical to the rest.

John's eyes fell on a tent flap across the stage from the main entrance, and vaguely recalled the two performers disappearing in that direction after the spotlight went off.  Could that be where he was supposed to meet this Lestrade man?

John hopped down off of the wooden bleachers, wincing when he landed with more weight than he had intended on his bad leg.  He normally carried a cane, but who had ever heard of a clown who needed a cane to walk?  It was ridiculous.  So John was resigned to limping around this carnival, pursuing a job he wasn't even sure he wanted in an area he knew virtually nothing about.

John staggered towards the tent flap and lifted the edge, peering inside.  He was immediately confronted with a quite alarming amount of brightly coloured costumes of various shapes and materials and patterns, all strung up haphazardly on metal rolling carts.  He tentatively stepped inside, pushing aside what seemed to be a luminous purple dress with several layers of skirts in every colour of the rainbow before he saw the other inhabitants of the tent.

The first two he recognised immediately.  They were the two performers from that night's show; the short and mousy Auguste clown was frowning sulkily in the corner while the whiteface clown towered over a grey-haired man in dress trousers and an un-tucked white collared shirt.  John had just opened his mouth to ask where he could find Mr. Lestrade, but he stopped as his eyes fell again on the whiteface clown.  He was just as regal and breathtaking as he was under the spotlight onstage, possibly even more so up close.

Luckily, the grey-haired man took that moment to glance over at John, detaching himself from the performer to approach the newcomer.

"Ah, and you must be John Watson," the man said, reaching out his hand to shake John's.  "Glad you managed to find the place; until you've been here for about seven years, everything begins to look the same."

"And you're Mr. Lestrade?" John asked, shaking his hand.

"Oh, please, call me Greg," Lestrade said amiably, turning to introduce John to the other two inhabitants of the tent.  "And this is...well, Anderson's obviously scampered off somewhere, but you'll probably meet him soon enough - "

"Off to meet with a certain lion tamer, if I'm not very much mistaken," came a murmur from behind Greg.  "Which I'm not."

Lestrade's face was a mixture of disapproval and amusement when he shifted to introduce the whiteface clown.

"And this," said Lestrade, "is - "

"Adler or Bartholomew's?" a low voice interrupted, and it was several moments before John realised that the clown was directing the question at him.

"Sorry?" John squeaked out.  How could he know, how could he _possibly_ -

"Which was it, Adler or Bartholomew's circus?" the performer repeated.  Lestrade coughed lightly in embarrassment.

"Look, just ignore him, you don't have to - "

"Bartholomew's," John replied curiously, staring at the beautifully painted face of the tall man.   "Sorry, how did you know...?"

But the man was already turning back to Lestrade.

"I'm afraid I have an important matter to attend to.  Wish I could stick around to help introduce our _first of May,_ but I'm sure you'll do a smashing job showing him the ropes - "

" _Sherlock_ ," Lestrade interrupted him.  "John Watson here is going to be your new act partner."

John's mouth dropped open.  Sherlock paused in front of the far tent flap.

"Is he?" Sherlock said in a much softer voice.  "I...was not aware that you had found a replacement.  And he agreed to this?"

"Obviously I found a replacement, Victor's been gone for three months now!" Greg cried.  "And of course he agreed to it, what did you expect?"

"Nothing, just..." Sherlock took a deep breath.  "What did you tell him about me?"

"I _told_  him that we were in need of an Auguste clown to perform with an experienced whiteface for our late afternoon show, and that he would most likely be filling in where needed during the day," Greg replied.

"And that's all you told him?" inquired Sherlock.

"Yes!"

John was growing uneasy.

"Sorry, is there something that Greg should have told me...?"

Sherlock turned to him with a fake smile plastered on his face.

"Oh, nothing.  Just, don't you think potential co-performers ought to know the worst about each other?"

Sherlock headed for the tent flap again.

"So, like I said, gotta dash, but I'll be back in an hour to start the training."

"Is that it?" John called after him, flummoxed.

"Is that what?" Sherlock asked, pausing again in the mouth of the tent.

"I've only just arrived, and we're about to begin training?"

"Problem?"

"I don't know a thing about this circus.  I don't know where the bloody hell to go for _clown training,_ and we don't know a thing about each other _._ "

"I know you've recently been invalided home from Bartholomew's circus. You grew up in the circus life, then returned to it after medical school, after you found you couldn't settle down anywhere as a doctor.  You were wounded in a traumatic circus accident and moved to London for a few months.  You've thrown away your cane before you came here, and I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. But you fired her; very good choice, she was quite wrong about your PTSD.  That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John simply gaped at him.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and we'll meet at the blue tent across the road in an hour.  We'll get a late dinner before we start training.  Afternoon!"

And with a wink and a twitch of that black-defined mouth, he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and we'll meet at the blue tent across the road in an hour.  We'll get a late dinner before we start training.  Afternoon!"_

_And with a wink and a twitch of that black-defined mouth, he was gone._

Lestrade chuckled at John's wide-eyed expression.

"Yeah, he's always like that.  You still want to meet with him, or has he scared you off already?"

"No, it was - " _Amazing_ , John wanted to say, but he caught himself.  "Fine.  It's all fine."

"Well, let's see if you'll be saying that in an hour when you've got to work with him," said Lestrade with an air of amusement, but at the same time with a resigned sense of a defeated man.  "Want me to stick around with you?"

"No, it's alright," John said, shaking his head.

"Okay, well, I'd better go find Anderson.  Good luck with Sherlock, you'll need it."

John wasn't exactly reassured by Greg's parting words, but he didn't let them bother him.  He was mainly preoccupied with the fact that he was going to be performing with that regal whiteface clown, and that he was meeting him in an hour for dinner.  When he was onstage, he seemed so otherworldly and separated from everybody else; was he going to have the same demeanour when he was out of his costume and make-up free?  Was that an act, or simply the way he was?

John limped his way out of the tent and decided he would go for a short stroll to clear his head.  The sun was nearly down and the air was growing cooler, but the crowd had not yet dissipated.  The smell of carnival food filled John's nostrils, and his mouth began to water.  He didn't get his hopes up, though; he wasn't expecting the food for the staff to be nearly as delicious.

John was careful not to wander too far from the block of tents he had started at.  Especially with the disappearing light, it would not do him any good to get lost and be unable to find his way back in the dark.

John began making his way back towards the specified blue tent after about forty minutes.  He didn't want to be late, and his leg was starting to twinge painfully at every step.  This jogged another round of questions inside John's brain - _How did he know about the psychosomatic limp?  And how could he possibly know about the therapist?_

John pushed his way inside the tent to find what looked like a miniature version of the one that he had seen Sherlock Holmes perform in.  A small stage sat in the centre, and rickety wooden benches lined the outside of the space.  John sat down on one of these, after pulling on a string hanging from above to illuminate a single dirty light bulb.  No spotlights in this tent, it seemed.

A few minutes later, the tent flap was pushed aside, bringing a waft of cool air with it.  A person stepped inside the small space, and it was several moments before John recognised the figure.  It was, indeed Sherlock Holmes.

But he was just as breathtaking without the makeup.

His skin was nearly as pale as the white makeup he sported earlier, and even without the black accents, his facial features were clearly defined.  His black curls were the same, so they were clearly natural.  Sherlock was wearing a long, thick, dark grey coat, and he was carrying two trays of food.

"Oh good, you're here," Sherlock said, sweeping over and handing one of the trays to John.  "I would apologise in advance for the food here, but I daresay you've had to deal with similar conditions with Bartholomew's."

The _thanks_ got lost on its way out of John's mouth and instead, he said, "How did you know about Bartholomew's?"

"I didn't know, I saw," said Sherlock. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says medical training. But your conversation...'Bit different from my day'...said you were familiar with the travelling circus - so you grew up in the circus, obvious. Your face is tanned...but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand - so it's at least partly psychosomatic. Regarding the suntan, there were very few notable circuses travelling abroad with sunny weather in the past five years, and that narrowed down the choices considerably.  So, Adler or Bart's."

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist.  And since you've refused to follow their advice and came back to the circus, you've obviously fired them."

John stared at Sherlock, blinking slowly.

"That...was amazing," he said finally, shaking his head in awe.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked, the shock showing clearly on his porcelain face.

John nodded.

"Of course it was.  It was extraordinary.  It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," said Sherlock.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

The two men stared at each other for a moment and then began to laugh, their bland meals forgotten.

"So...where exactly are the sleeping quarters here?" John asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his thin jacket.  Sherlock had quickly gotten bored with the idea of starting training that evening and instead he had taken to showing John around the rest of the outdoor circus.  The circus was closed for the day and all of the guests had gone home, but various workers and performers were wandering around.  The circus did not, in fact, span miles, like it had seemed to John, but was actually much smaller and cosier than John had initially suspected.  He could see himself growing comfortable in this environment within a few days, at the very least.

Sherlock swept out a long arm and pointed in the direction to their left, but John really couldn't see much.

"Baker Circus has its own train, and there are sleeping compartments in the cars.  We can stop by and speak to Lestrade before we head down there; he should still be in the main tent working out the details for the elephant show tomorrow afternoon.  He can tell you where to sleep."

The two men strolled in companionable silence to the huge tent that dominated the circus layout.  They slipped inside, and Lestrade was indeed there.  He was standing about halfway up the tall bleachers that lined the outside of the tent, waving his arms over his head and shouting half-heartedly at a couple of young stage hands who were pushing around wooden platforms and colourful hoops.

Greg saw them a moment later and immediately climbed down off of the bleachers to talk to them.

"God, these new stage hands are bloody awful!  How's your new one doing, then?" Greg asked Sherlock, grinning at them both.

"He's performing admirably," replied Sherlock with what John could only describe as glowing pride.

"Yeah, well, it's not as though we've actually done any training or anything yet, have we?" said John, smiling up at Sherlock sheepishly.

"You've managed to stick around Sherlock's company for more than ten minutes, and that's an accomplishment in anyone's book," said Greg, glancing between the two of them with amazement and curiosity.

"John, didn't you have something to ask Lestrade?" said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, and John jumped guiltily, realising that he had been staring up at Sherlock's face for that whole time.

"Oh, yeah.  Um, Greg, I was just wondering about my sleeping arrangements?  Anything'll do, really, after my time with Bart's I'm certainly not picky."

Lestrade stuffed his hands into his pockets, tilting his head to the side as he considered.

"Oh, we can certainly find somewhere for you.  Now I'll admit, we're a bit tight at the moment..."

Lestrade reached for a clipboard that was sitting on a small folding table near the door and began to flip through it.

"Looks like we've got no less than eight people to a compartment..." Lestrade muttered, skimming through the pages.  He sighed, glancing up at Sherlock with an apprehensive expression.

"Sherlock, can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked, jerking his head back towards the entrance of the tent, and the two men retreated away from John.

"Now look, Sherlock, I know you've made a point of getting your compartment to yourself since you've arrived here, and quite frankly I can't see how you've managed it, although I think it must have something to do with that mysterious brother of yours..." Lestrade paused for a moment and regrouped himself.  "Anyway, Sherlock, basically, you're going to have to share your compartment with John."

"Yes, yes, fine," replied Sherlock distractedly, waving his hand.

Lestrade gaped at him.

" _Fine?!_   Since when has that ever been _fine_ with you?  We've been trying to get to you share your car with other workers for years but you've always put up the biggest tantrum the world's ever seen from a grown man!  Why is this suddenly _fine_?"

"Well of course I don't want to share with _them,_ " Sherlock sneered, bunching up his nose and gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stage workers, who had somehow managed to upend one of the wooden platforms and were having quite a bit of trouble getting it back down.

"So why in the world are you suddenly fine with sharing with John Watson?  You've known him for, what, four hours?"

"I trust him," Sherlock stated simply.  "And he intrigues me."

"...Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that to be so easy," said Lestrade, shaking his head in disbelief.  "I'll go let John know, and then you can show him -  "

"What?" Sherlock interrupted sharply.  "John doesn't know yet?"

"Of course he doesn't know, I expected you to put up a fight and refuse anyway!" cried Lestrade.

"I got the impression from you that he had already agreed to it," said Sherlock.  "There's quite a small chance that he will be fine with rooming with me."

"Yeah, well, difficult to live with as you are, I'm sure there are quite a few who would choose sharing with you over sharing with seven other people."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade shrugged resignedly.

"Well, there's no way to be sure until we ask, right?  Come on."

The two men walked back over to John, who had been watching the new stage hands struggle with an air of amusement.

"So, John, we've managed to find some space for you..." began Lestrade.

"Oh, good.  Like I said, I'm not picky, so anywhere'll do," replied John amiably.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a look, who pointedly ignored it.

"That is, John," said Sherlock, "if you don't mind rooming with me?"

Sherlock's sentence turned up at the end, sounding more like a question than a statement.

 "No, of course I don't mind!" replied John, smiling.  "At least I get to stay with the only friend I've made here so far."

Sherlock was thrown by John's immediate and enthusiastic agreement.  He thought perhaps that John would at least need some further persuasion or reassurance, but he seemed perfectly happy at the prospect of living in close quarters with Sherlock Holmes.  At the word "friend," the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.  Sherlock had never had a friend before; he never saw the point.  If friends were like John, though, Sherlock didn't think he would have much of a problem with them.

Although Sherlock was pointedly not looking at Lestrade, he could nearly feel the smug look on his supervisor's face as he glanced between Sherlock and John.  Realising that now would probably be a good time to leave, Sherlock began walking towards the entrance to the tent, speaking without turning around.

"Well, now that that's settled, we'd better be off.  Come along, John!"

John raised a hand to Greg, before jogging to catch up with his new roommate.  Lestrade watched them go with a bewildered smile, shaking his head.

 

John and Sherlock stopped by the dressing room where John had left his things earlier before they headed off towards the train.  John's leg didn't hurt as much, for which he was grateful, and his limp was far better than it had been that afternoon.

Sherlock glanced at the small duffel bag that swung from John's hand.

"You don't have much," he observed.  "Three pairs of jeans, I'd say, about three t-shirts and two bulkier jumpers.  As well as a pair of pyjama pants, most likely.  A few necessities such as a toothbrush, deodorant, razor...No outerwear; you're wearing the only jacket and pair of shoes you own, or more likely, the only ones you bothered to bring with you.  The rest of your things are at your brother's place."

John blinked, staring up at Sherlock.

"Brother?"

"Yes, the duffel bag is quite worn, and has special pockets on the side for sports equipment.  Specifically: karate equipment.  But you don't have the proper muscle development for one who practiced karate for years; no, you played other sports, probably football or rugby.  The initials drawn in sharpie on the side of the bag say HW, which are not your initials, but presumably those of a relative, as you share the same last initial.  You obviously needed somewhere to stay after you left the circus, and since your parents are clearly deceased, the next step would be to stay with a sibling.  When you announced you were leaving, your brother gave you this old bag to keep your things in, and allowed you to keep the rest of your belongings at his place.  Am I correct?"

John let out a surprised puff of air, smiling and shaking his head.

"Yeah, my stuff's at Harry's.  This is Harry's old karate bag, too.  It's got three pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, and two jumpers in it, as well as my toiletries."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Was I spot-on?  That's brilliant, there's usually _something..._ "

"Harry's my sister," said John, grinning up at Sherlock.

The taller man's face fell.

"Your _sister_...of course...Oh, there's always something!"

John laughed, not out of menace but simply out of amusement, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

"Still, though, you haven't brought very much at all with you," Sherlock remarked.

"What can I say?  I'm a simple man," replied John.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at John as he turned his head to look at him.

"Trust me, John Watson, you are anything but simple."

John looked up at Sherlock, whose angular face was lit only by the light of the stars.  How could John have thought that this man was so cold and distant earlier when he saw Sherlock onstage and in the dressing room?  His expression towards John at that moment was nothing other than open and warm.  But the moment ended far too soon when the two men finally reached the train.

"My - our - compartment's down this way," said Sherlock, correcting himself quickly as he gestured to their left.  He caught John's smile and nudged him playfully with his elbow.

"Shut up, I'm just not used to sharing," Sherlock said as they reached their car, pushing open the white door that had a large black "21" on it.

John glanced around eagerly as he entered the small car, while Sherlock stood off to the side with baited breath, waiting for John's reaction.

"This is quite nice," John said, setting down his duffel bag and stepping into the centre of the room to get a better look around.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked, a bit dubiously.

"Yeah, it's quite cosy," remarked John, smiling.  "I love it."

Sherlock watched John look around the car, quite pleased by John's reaction.

There were bunk beds lining two sides of the room, and John could make out four of them, plus a spot where it looked as though some had been forcibly removed to make room for a small homemade study space.  Only one of the bunks was visible, because the others had been stacked with books and papers, as well as other various objects.  John thought he even noticed a human skull peeking out from behind a stack of encyclopaedias.

By all accounts, this car should have looked messy and unclean.  But it didn't - to John, it just seemed comfortable and well-lived in.

John dropped his duffel bag and walked over to the heavily draped window over the one clear bed in the corner.  He leaned over the pillow to brush the curtain aside and look at the landscape outside.  In the darkness, John could only just make out rolling, grass-covered hills and brilliant twinkling constellations peppering the navy sky.  John barely noticed Sherlock approaching until the taller man was leaning over his shoulder to peer up into the sky with him.

"It's beautiful," whispered John, to which Sherlock replied with a brief hum in his throat.  "How much longer are we staying here?"

"We just arrived here yesterday to set up," replied Sherlock, "and today was our first day of performances.  We'll be here for another week."

There was a sudden lack of warmth when Sherlock's presence disappeared from over John's shoulder.  John glanced behind him, and Sherlock was scooping huge armfuls of books off of the lower bunk across from Sherlock's, where John was currently leaning over.

"Sorry I didn't clear up..." Sherlock mumbled, turning around and searching for a place to put the books before finally just dumping them on his desk next to a microscope.  "I wasn't quite prepared for a surprise roommate."

"Sorry for intruding..." John muttered lamely, biting his lip, but Sherlock's head snapped up.

"Not at all!" Sherlock said quickly, but by the time John tried to catch his eye, only his dark curls were visible from where he was ducking over the bunk, gathering up loose papers.

John was wandering around the small space, glancing at the titles of some of Sherlock's books.  There were several heavy chemistry textbooks, as well as some on physics and even a few medical texts.  This sort of reading seemed to dominate the literature here.

"Have you read all of these?" John asked, flipping vaguely through a physics reference book.

"About two-thirds of them," Sherlock replied, emerging from under the bunk with dust bunnies in his hair.  John managed to refrain from giggling at the sight.

"How do you find the time?" John asked, noticing even more books stuffed under one of the bunks and on a makeshift shelf over the door.  "Blimey..."

"I make time," Sherlock replied, leaning around John to move a small armchair into the corner so it wasn't blocking the door as much.  "I don't usually require as much practice time as the other performers, so I'm often free to return to my room to read or experiment."

"What in the world do you experiment on?" John asked with a huff of laughter.

"All sorts," Sherlock replied vaguely, and John was going to ask him to elaborate when he caught sight of Sherlock, who still had dust bunnies resting in his curls.  John smiled fondly, stepping towards him.

"Come here, mate, you've got dust in your hair."

Sherlock blushed slightly, but obediently bowed his head so John could card his fingers through the soft curls and remove the offending dust bunnies, dropping them in the bin.

"I guess I'll do some cleaning tomorrow, shall I?" John said, half-jokingly.

"You're certainly welcome to it, but you'll probably be exhausted by the end of the day," replied Sherlock.  "Lestrade has us up early to help set up and get in costume, and I assume that he'll want to go over some scheduling things with you and any other new clowns who've arrived.  Since Baker is generally a year-round tour, there's not much of an off-season for training, so there's a good chance you won't be alone.  Also, Molly will probably want to meet with you tomorrow - "

"Who's Molly?"

"Molly Hooper; she's in charge of costuming.  She'll make sure we have something to fit you.  You probably won't be in any of the performances for at least a few days, but Lestrade will find somewhere for you until then.  You should catch on pretty quickly, judging by your past experience."

By now, John was stifling huge yawns, and a sympathetic smile was tugging at Sherlock's mouth.

"Bathroom's over there," he said, jerking his head towards the opposite end of the car.  "It's tiny, but at least we don't have to share with ten others, like some people do."

"Thanks," yawned John in gratitude, digging out his small toiletry bag and going into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.  Sherlock took that opportunity to change into his pyjamas and put fresh bedclothes onto John's bunk.  John came out of the bathroom a few minutes later and the two men swapped places, John pulling on his own pyjamas and falling onto the bunk, feeling sleep tugging at his eyelids already.

John's eyes had already drifted shut when he heard the bathroom door open and light footsteps as Sherlock padded out, barefoot.  He heard more footsteps, then the telltale click of a light switch, and the world outside of his closed eyelids went black.  The blankets on the other bunk slithered as they were pulled back, then draped over another body.  A small _poof_ as a head dropped onto a pillow.

The exhaustion of the day was setting even further in for John, and he felt himself drifting off towards sleep.  He was barely conscious when he heard a low voice whisper "Goodnight, John."


	3. Chapter 3

John sat up quickly, banging his forehead on something in the process.

"Ow!" he cried, trying to work out what was happening.  There was a loud noise.  A ringing noise.  Where was he?  In a bunk?  Room of books.  Fields outside the window.  With - oh.

John blinked his eyes open and saw Sherlock Holmes turning off the alarm clock by his bed, already dressed in tidy trousers and a button down shirt.  The sun was already poking its way through the thick drapes behind the bunks.

"Well, you're quite disorientated this morning," remarked Sherlock with a grin, rolling up his shirtsleeves and tying the laces on a shiny black shoe.

"G'morning to you, too," grumbled John, swinging his legs off the bed and letting his bare feet dangle as he rubbed his face, trying to wake himself up.  "What's the special occasion?"

"What do you mean?"  Sherlock was now pulling a neat black blazer on over his impeccable white shirt.

"I mean, you _are_ a clown, aren't you?  What's with the fancy trousers and dry-cleaned shirts?"

Sherlock spread his arms out to his sides, looking down at his outfit with a crinkled brow.

"These are my clothes."

"Aren't you about to go and put on a fancy costume?"

"Yes, but I need something to walk over to the costume tent in, don't I?"

"Alright, go on then," John said, shaking his head and chuckling.  Sherlock stared at him indignantly.

" _What?!_ " he cried, looking down at his outfit again.

"Nothing," John replied, still giggling.  "Just that you are, without a doubt, the weirdest clown I have ever met."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swept out of the compartment, but not before John caught the smile on his pale face.

John pulled himself out of his bunk with a sigh, quickly showering and dressing before going outside.  It was a beautiful day - warm temperatures with a light breeze, and the morning sun illuminating the already bustling circus life, even though it hadn't opened for visitors yet.  John could see other performers and workers sitting outside their compartments, some already in costume and some looking much like John in their worn jeans and old t-shirts.  He nodded cordially to them as he walked by, on his way to the small tent set up that housed the food for the workers.  The food was simple, but not as bland as he remembered eating back during his time at Bart's.

John walked up the midway, thinking that he should go track down Lestrade for his schedule for the week.  He was fairly certain that Lestrade was the part of the management that dealt mainly with the clown acts, so hopefully he could find him down in the clown alley.

John found the right tent on his first try today, but the inside was packed with people.  Performers, mainly clowns, were rushing about, some in normal clothing but wearing ridiculously coloured makeup, and others without any makeup at all but sporting layers of brightly pattered shirts and ties.

John began to feel hopeless and lost in this sea of people before he spotted a familiar face showing above the heads of others.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, turning the heads of a few people near him, but most of them were in a hurry and rushed straight past him anyway.  His tall friend turned and saw him struggling through the crowd, and he pushed through and grabbed John's elbow, pulling him behind a rack of costumes and out of the general flow of traffic.

Sherlock was already wearing his costume.  It was white with black accents, quite similar to the one he had worn during the previous evening's performance that John had seen, but this one was a bit less ornate.  He was not yet wearing his makeup, but John didn't think he needed it.  Sherlock's features were quite striking enough, even without the help of layers of makeup.  Also, his electric green and blue eyes stood out more this way, when the attention wasn't being drawn away from them to his already prominent cheekbones or sharp chin.

"Having trouble finding Lestrade?" Sherlock asked loudly to be heard over the commotion of the other performers struggling to be ready before the onslaught of visitors poured through the gates.  John jumped slightly; he hadn't realized how intently he had been staring.

"Yeah, just a bit," John replied, glancing back into the mess of people in the tent.

"He's probably trying to get people ready for the day's first performance," said Sherlock.  "He'll be back in here in a few minutes to look for you.  He hasn't forgotten about you."

John's gaze had fallen to the floor, and he noticed that Sherlock was wearing the slim black dancing slippers with his costume again.

"Nice shoes," John remarked, slightly jokingly.  Sherlock tilted his head, regarding him carefully.

"Are you making fun of me?" he asked.

"Well spotted," replied John with a crooked grin.  "I do like them, though.  They suit you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, they heard  a voice above the crowd.

"John!"

They turned to see Lestrade fighting his way through the group of clowns toward them, which had thinned considerably already.

"John, I'm glad I caught you," said Lestrade, who had made it over to the two of them.  "I'll finish showing you around and show you what you're going to be doing this afternoon.  We can start training you for the more specialized show but you probably won't start performing in that until next week.  Then I'll take you to Molly so she can set you up with some costumes, and after lunch we'll dress you up and you'll be off.  You're going to be walking around the big top during come in so you can have a chance to start interacting with some of the visitors.  You catch all that?"

"I think I've got it, yeah," replied John.  "I still remember most of the circus lingo from when I was a kid."

"Good, good," said Lestrade distractedly, glancing over at Sherlock.  "Sherlock, you had better get going over to Molly.  She can help you out with your makeup before your ten o'clock performance.  If you don't hurry you might get stuck behind the acrobats and then you won't be there on time."

"See you at dinner, then?" John asked Sherlock hopefully, but the tall man shook his head.

"Sorry, John, but I've got to fill in for the main performances at the big top today.  I won't be free until late."

"Oh, okay," John replied, trying not to let the disappointment show on his face.  He supposed he'd just sit alone outside the dining tent for his meals today, then.

John felt a warm hand close around his arm, and he looked up into Sherlock's dazzling blue eyes.

"I have tomorrow afternoon free.  Should we catch a bite to eat and explore the circus then?"

"Yeah, sure!" replied John, taken aback.

"Sherlock, you're going to be late," Lestrade warned Sherlock, glancing at his watch.

"See you later, John," said Sherlock with an elusive grin.

"Bye," said John, but Sherlock had already disappeared behind a rack of costumes.

"Come on, John, let's show you what you'll be doing at big top before the show," said Lestrade, beckoning John to follow after him.

John hastened to follow, nearly barrelling straight into a girl wearing a costume that seemed to comprise entirely of red and orange feathers.  He felt a sense of excitement somewhere in his stomach.  It was his first real day back in the circus life, and John Watson couldn't wait.

 

By the time ten o'clock rolled around, John Watson was exhausted.  He had been kept on his feet nearly all day, barely taking breaks to sneak over to the food tent and grab a meal.  Lestrade had kept him busy, wasting no time in showing him the ropes then plunging him headfirst into the life of a clown at the circus.

And John loved every minute of it.

He had met a lot of people that day.  One of the first people he talked to was Molly Hooper, who was in charge of costumes and helped with makeup.  She was very bright and chirpy as she twitted around the costume racks, dragging back colourful scraps of fabric for John to try on.  She was absolutely ecstatic when she found out that John was rooming with Sherlock, and wouldn't stop talking about him for nearly the whole time John was in the costume tent.  John didn't mind, but even found himself agreeing wholeheartedly with a lot of the things Molly was saying, like how brilliant he was at performing, and how wonderfully he could pull off those classic whiteface costumes.  Even though he wasn't a swooning young girl, John couldn't deny these facts.

John was brought to the big top for the hour or so before the big performances, fully clad in bright clown costumes and red, white, and black face makeup.  He strolled around, waving cheerily to the guests, occasionally posing for pictures with families, and even filling in making balloon animals for a bit.  It was before the afternoon show when he met Sally Donovan.

Sally was one of the lion tamers, and John got the impression she was one of the people who had been brought up in the circus life since childhood, much like John himself.  But Sally was loud, rude, and sour, and John supposed that she might have been the sort who was a failed acrobat, resorting to lion taming for lack of a more favourable option.

Sally had sidled right up to him after John had finished getting his picture taken with a young couple and their two small children.  She sidled up to him, cornering him against the side of the pretzel booth.  John supposed that if he hadn't been brought up in the circus that this sight would be funny to most people, a woman in an lion tamer costume complete with shiny black boots and a whip (decorative, of course) towering over a short clown clad in several multicoloured vests and a large red nose.  John simply stood his ground, staring back at her and waiting for Sally to speak.

"You'll be working with the freak, won't you?" she said loudly, crossing her arms.

"Excuse me?" said John politely, but Sally was ignoring his attempts at civility.

"Heard you're even rooming with him.  And he doesn't share anything with anybody."

"Sorry, are you talking about Sherlock?" asked John, confused.

Sally still refused to answer his questions.

"You're not his friend.  He doesn't have friends, you know.  So tell me, who are you?"

John sighed resignedly.

"I'm...nobody.  Just nobody."

He turned around and started to head back near the centre of the ring, but Sally called after him.

"A bit of advice.  Stay away from that guy, okay?"

But John had ignored her.

But now it was late, and John was dragging his feet across the grass through the dark and to the train.  The combination of dark and exhaustion meant that John nearly walked into the wrong car a couple of times, but eventually he found car twenty one and let himself inside.

Sherlock was already in his pyjamas, lying on his bunk on top of the blankets with a bulky chemistry book balanced on his knees.  He glanced up as  John walked in, wearing his jeans and a t-shirt but still with his gaudy clown makeup caked on his face.  The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"Long day?"

"I can't even begin to tell you."

John immediately locked himself in the bathroom, not eager to begin to try scrubbing this paint off of his face.  Instead, he turned on the water in the tiny shower and stepped under the warm spray, letting the water wash over his tired muscles and carry the paint down the drain.  He stood there until the warm water turned icy, which took a disappointingly short time.

Sherlock glanced up from his book again when John exited the bathroom and sat on the edge of his own bunk, now clad in his pyjamas and with wet hair.  There were still traces of red makeup around the edges of his face, and even a smudge of black on the tip of John's upturned nose.  Sherlock grinned.

John glanced up at Sherlock, seeing his smile and frowning.

"What?  What's so funny?"

Sherlock shook his head, still smiling as he stood up and headed for the bathroom.

"Don't go anywhere."

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom with a clean towel, tossing it at John.

 "You missed some," Sherlock said, gesturing at his face.

"Don't care," John muttered sleepily.

"It's going to rub off on your pillowcase when you go to sleep," said Sherlock sensibly, but John picked up the towel and chucked it at Sherlock, who caught it, surprised.

"Clean it off yourself, then, you prat," said John jokingly, but he wasn't quite expecting Sherlock to actually do it.  He sat down next to John on the side of his bunk, facing him.  Sherlock raised the cloth to John's cheek and gently scrubbed at it, and it came away stained red.

"Thanks," John mumbled, turning slightly red.  Sherlock lifted his fingertips to John's face and turned his head slightly so he could see the rest of the paint on the other side.  John tilted his head obediently, too sleepy to register much more than Sherlock's warm fingertips resting gently on the side of his jaw.

Sherlock considered leaving the black smudge of paint on the end of John's nose because he thought it looked cute, but didn't want for it to rub off on John's pillowcase in the night and John to wake up and get upset.  He scrubbed it off with the last clean corner of the washcloth, smiling at the way John's eyes had drifted shut sometime in the past couple of minutes.

"It's safe, you can lie down now," said Sherlock, grinning in amusement, but John didn't seem to hear him.  Sighing, Sherlock gently pushed on John's shoulder, who seemed to finally get the hint in his barely-conscious state and tumbled over sideways onto his pillow.  Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly, grabbing the worn quilt and pulling it up over John's shoulders before turning out the light and retiring to his own bed.

Having a roommate wasn't so bad after all.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day was Thursday, which was the closest thing to an off-day at Baker Circus.  The grounds closed early and there was no evening performance at big top on Thursdays, meaning that most of the workers were free from dinnertime onward.

Sherlock and John met each other at the meal tent, each grabbing a Styrofoam tray and proceeding down to the side of the circus facing the large field.  They sat down to eat, leaning against some stacked crates behind the tents.

They ate in comfortable silence for several minutes, Sherlock practically wolfing down his meal.  John raised an eyebrow.

"Hungry, then, are you?"

"I don't eat when I'm working," explained Sherlock in between bites of his dinner roll.

"But...you're always working," said John.  "Every day, nearly all day.  When do you eat?"

"Dinner is often fine, because I don't usually perform in the evenings," said Sherlock.  "But my brain is clearer when my body is not bothered with such tiresome acts like digestion.  I find I can perform better on an empty stomach."

"That's not very safe," admonished John, his eyes travelling down Sherlock's slim, almost spindly form.  "Where are you going to get your energy from?  You could collapse one day onstage in the heat and seriously injure yourself."

"I should have known this was what I was getting into, having a doctor for a roommate," Sherlock joked, but John didn't laugh.  He continued looking stubbornly and concernedly at Sherlock.  Sherlock sighed.

"Look, I'm eating now, aren't I?  And it's not as if I purposely deprive myself of food.  I'm often just too focused on work to notice I'm hungry.  But when I do notice, I eat.  It's as simple as that."

John sighed heavily, shaking his head.

"Okay, well, just don't starve yourself, alright?  I don't want to end up with an accidentally anorexic roommate."

John set down his nearly empty tray, suddenly remembering what he was going to tell Sherlock.

"I met Sally Donovan the other day," he said, and Sherlock immediately made a face of disgust.

"Really, John?  We have a rare day off and you want to spend it talking about _Sally Donovan?_ "

"She said I should stay away from you."

"Did she?" asked Sherlock, suddenly intrigued.  "And what did you say?"

"Ignored her, mostly.  Told her I was just nobody, she shouldn't worry about me."

"You're not nobody," said Sherlock seriously, and John felt his heart leap.  "And besides, maybe she's right."

"What are you talking about?"

"Maybe you should stay away from me.  Being around me could be dangerous."

John chuckled and Sherlock glanced around at him, not expecting that reaction.

"Well, I'll get back to you on that one.  Maybe I'll change my mind once I start getting kidnapped by escaped criminals."

The serious tone of the conversation was lost by Sherlock as he began to giggle too.

"Is that what Bart's was like?  Convicts hijacking the elephants, serial killers hiding in the cotton candy stands?"

"Not quite, but that's what I'm beginning to expect when I'm around you," replied John.  "But I'm sure you can warn me of their harmful nature by looking at their trouser leg or something, can't you?"

"I can make do with a shirt collar."

"Sure you can."

Barely moments had passed when Sherlock pointed out across the field by the train, to where a short man was walking across the grass in the direction of the far trees.

"Like him.  He's up to something."

"Who is he?" John asked, frowning and following the man's path with his eyes.  "And where is he going?  There's nothing over there."

"I don't know," replied Sherlock uneasily, and it was a bit unsettling for both of them when Sherlock didn't have a precise answer or even a theory.  "I've seen him around the circus, of course, but only once or twice.  I believe he's a character clown."

The man seemed to have noticed them staring, and he was soon changing his path across the field to head in their direction.

"Hello, boys," he said when he got closer with a slight Irish accent, his tone simultaneously lilting and bored-sounding.  "Enjoying our day off, are we?"

"Very much," Sherlock replied evenly, although his sharp eyes were calculating as he regarded their visitor.

"Jim," he said, his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth slightly on his feet.  "Of course I know who _you_ are, Sherlock, but this is a new face!"  Jim turned to John with glee.  "Oh, this is exciting.  Sherlock, you've got yourself your own little first of May!  How adorable."

"John Watson," John said firmly, standing up and offering his hand for Jim to shake.

"John Watson," Jim repeated, a slightly manic grin on his face as he shook John's hand, glancing over at Sherlock.  "Well, well, Sherlock, looks as though you've finally got someone to stick around!  And how is that brother of yours doing?"

Sherlock stared at Jim with unease, obviously surprised and perturbed by the question.

"So you work here?" John interrupted to save Sherlock from replying, feeling the need to prove that he wasn't intimidated by this strange man's unsettling persona.

"Oh, yes," Jim replied, his grin growing wider.  "And honey, you should _see me as a clown._ "

"John and I will be going now," said Sherlock stiffly, stepping forward and taking John's elbow, steering them away from Jim, whose grin never wavered.

"Goodbye, Sherlock!  Johnny!" he called after them, but Sherlock kept walking, forgetting about their half-eaten meals on the crates behind them.

John's protests finally seemed to be heard by Sherlock after they were halfway down the row of tents, where they stopped.  Sherlock's eyes were wild, and he seemed restless.

"I don't trust him," he said, eyes flicking over to the field where Jim had disappeared.

"Obviously you don't trust him, he's just a creep," replied John, shaking off Sherlock's grip on his arm.  "He's gone now, and I'd really prefer to spend my day off talking about something else, so let's just go back and finish eating, yeah?"

Sherlock grudgingly followed John back to the tent where they had left their trays, and they sat back down on the crates and resumed eating.

They chewed in silence for several moments, before Sherlock spoke up.

"So what made you return to the circus life?"

John shot him a look.

"You already know that, don't you?  Deduced it practically the moment you met me."

"I'd rather hear it from you."

John sighed, leaning back against the crates again.

"Alright then.  As you know, I grew up in the circus.  Both of my parents were acrobats; they had met in the circus and decided to get married and raise a family there.  I loved every moment of it, but my older sister, Harry, was more rebellious and was always trying to get out.  She finally did, when she turned eighteen, but not before she developed a nasty drinking habit that nearly got her kicked out of university.

"I never had much interest in being an acrobat, but I always loved the clowns.  They always seemed to be the ones to make a guest's day a little brighter, you know?  So I started seriously clowning when I was about twelve.  At first I would just walk around and wave to people, but then I started being in the shows.  But then, when I was seventeen, lightning struck the big top in the middle of one of the performances.  It started collapsing right on top of us.  Most of the audience wasn't in harm's way, thankfully, but it came down nearly right on top of me.  It pinned me to the ground, and I was stuck there for nearly an hour while we waited for the firemen to come and get us out.  My only main injury was in my shoulder, where it had shattered a bone.  I was sent off to the hospital, where I had to stay for a few weeks, then I was in and out of physical therapy for another couple of months.  My parents were still with Bart's, so I stayed with Harry.  I started having nightmares, so I got a real therapist, too, who I hated.  Of course I didn't want to talk about these things with _her_.  But if I couldn't even talk about it, how could I ever go back into the circus?

"So I followed through on my backup plan.  I went to medical school, then got a job working at a local surgery in London.  I was there for a few years, far longer than I wanted to be, frankly.  I had to admit, I missed circus life.  When that's all you've known for a lifetime, it's nearly impossible to do anything else.

"I was thinking about being an army doctor, but...I wasn't quite sure of myself.  I couldn't justify risking my life when I wasn't absolutely positive that that's what I wanted to do with my life.  So instead, I quit my job at the surgery and became one of those caring clowns, you know, who'll go to hospitals to cheer up the patients.  I had to move back in with Harry because I was getting paid hardly anything and couldn't afford my flat.  That was my job for a few months before I just couldn't do it anymore.  Even though I was dressed like a clown and got to cheer people up, there was too much death and sickness and stillness.  I needed the exhilaration of travelling circus life, even if it was the same thing every day before you packed up and went somewhere else to do the same thing for another week.  I craved it.  So when I finally couldn't take it anymore, I sent out letters to nearly all of the travelling circuses in Western Europe, except the one I grew up with.  Lestrade was the first to get back to me from Baker Circus, so I immediately accepted and took a train up here to catch up with you guys.  And so far I haven't had any major PTSD attacks, so I guess I'm doing pretty good."  John laughed weakly, glancing up at Sherlock.  "So there's my story.  Bet yours is much more exciting than mine."

"Not really," replied Sherlock vaguely, glancing up towards the sun which was sinking towards the grassy hills in the distance.  "I grew up in the circus, like you.  My parents owned and managed their own circus, so I wasn't allowed to perform at a young age like you were."

Sherlock's words were sinking slowly into John's brain, and he started to make the connections.

"Your parents own Holmes Circus?!" John cried, his mouth dropping open.

Sherlock sighed disinterestedly.

"Yes, my parents _owned_ Holmes Circus, but now that they've retired to the countryside my older brother has taken over the management.  He doesn't care about the profit so much - don't get me wrong, he certainly enjoys the benefits of wealth - but what he really craves is the power.  I could have stayed with the family circus and risen up to run it alongside my dear brother, but I'm afraid that really didn't suit my interests in the slightest.  I was always envious of the circus performers; they got to go out there and perform for an audience every day, getting to be talented at something and show it off, but my parents would never let me near them.  While my brother prefers to work from behind the scenes, I don't think I would be able to stand sitting in the back while others get to run around in the sunlight all day.  When I turned sixteen, my parents sent me off to university - "

" _Sixteen?_ " John interrupted.

Sherlock stared back at him, unperturbed.

"Yes, sixteen," he repeated slowly.  "I finished the homeschooling program in the circus two years earlier than most students.  It was painfully simple."

John shook his head disbelievingly.

"God, you really are a bloody genius.  Still can't figure out how you ended up as a circus clown.  Go on, then."  He waved his hand in a gesture for Sherlock to continue, who complied.

"So I attended university and studied chemistry, but it's not as though I had much choice.  After graduating, I began looking to get hired at other travelling circuses, partially to spite my brother, but mostly because I couldn't stand to stay in one place for long.  Initially, I wanted to be an acrobat, but I had quite a bit of trouble finding a circus that wanted to hire a twenty-year-old male without any previous acrobatic experience.  Most acrobats start quite young, apparently.  So instead I signed on as a clown, which seemed quite manageable.  I interviewed for several jobs, but in the end, Lestrade was the only one who would hire me.  He was brand new back then, just moving up into management after being a circus kid and a clown for most of his life.  But he 'took me under his wing', I suppose you would say, and I've been here ever since."

Sherlock's words faded off into silence, and John turned his head to look at him, one thing still bothering him.

"But why are you here?" he asked again, slightly more urgently.  "You're bloody brilliant, everyone can see that.  You could have been a chemical engineer, or a physicist, or a bloody _private detective_ if you wanted to be, so why are you here, as a _clown_ of all things?"

Sherlock met his gaze calmly, the orange light cast by the sunset reflecting in his blue-green eyes and making the colours dance.

"Why aren't you an army doctor?" Sherlock asked him seriously, and the understanding hit John in the chest like a bolt of lightning.  Sherlock and John both needed the circus, they _craved_ it, and, like John, Sherlock couldn't have stayed away if he tried.

Sherlock saw the understanding dawn in John's blue-grey eyes and smirked.  John rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now too as the two men leaned back and watched the sunset, which cast fantastic rays of light across the field and across the tents.  And for the first time in his whole life, John truly felt like he was home.


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't see much of Sherlock for the next week.  Lestrade seemed keen on getting John right back into the heart of the circus as soon as possible, so that meant that when he wasn't handing out balloons to small children or posing for pictures with families, he was training.  Clown training was actually a lot of work - John had to memorise whole acts in shows, and also perform them convincingly and in sync with the other clowns.  Even after a couple hours of practicing with the others between shows, John still had to prop his notes up in front of him as he ate a hurried dinner so he could try to get them memorised.

John would slump back to the train quite late, sometimes not until nearly eleven, and would only exchange a few weary words with his roommate before retiring to bed.  Sherlock would sometimes already be asleep, but more often than not, he would be curled up in his bunk with a large chemistry book, or even hunched over the small desk in the corner, peering at god-knows-what through the microscope.  On these nights, after John collapsed onto his bunk and pulled the blankets around him, Sherlock would quietly get up and flick off the light switch, before tiptoeing back to his own bed in an effort to not disturb John.  John was very grateful for this, but also amused and a bit touched.  For the same man whom John had seen barrel around a corner and knock someone over without as much as an apology on several occasions, this almost compassionate behaviour seemed quite out of character.  John never got very far in these ponderings because he drifted off to sleep barely minutes later, before he was being assaulted awake by Sherlock's shrill alarm clock and was running off to get dressed in a ridiculous costume and work until nightfall.

It was their last day in this part of the country before they packed up and went off north, and by their first week in the new location, John would be ready to perform in the small clown acts, Lestrade had informed him happily.

 _With Sherlock?_   he had meant to ask, but Lestrade was already pushing him off towards one of the disused tents to join the others for practice.

 

Sherlock stood in the evening air, his heart still thrumming with the beat of the audience's applause and the thrill of performing onstage.  The corners of his painted mouth were upturned slightly as he tilted his head up towards the darkening sky.

"Hey, freak."

The unpleasantly familiar voice jolted Sherlock out of his moment of peace.  His heart returned to its normal rate of beating, and the blood seemed to slow dully in his veins.

"Hello, Donovan," he said simply, opening his eyes to glance at the intruder.  Sally Donovan was standing smugly with her arms crossed over her lion tamer outfit, which was comprised of white pants and high black boots, with a black shirt covered by a frankly ridiculous red jacket, which was decorated with gold tassels.  "And oh, look, you've brought a little friend."

Anderson stepped out from behind Donovan, clad in bright clown clothing and makeup, sneering.

"You've convinced Lestrade to let you play with the costume tent again, have you?" Sherlock asked cheekily.  Anderson's sneer widened.

"No, actually.  He's asked me, specifically, to help out at big top tonight.  And I did a damn fantastic job, if I may add.  Lestrade seems to think that I'm a _valuable addition to the group._ "

Sherlock stiffened minimally, turning to face Anderson.

"I don't need to cooperate with others to do my job well," he said, to which Anderson and Donovan shared secret smirks.

"So that's why Lestrade won't let you play with the professionals during the real performance?  Because you don't like to share?" Donovan asked in a mocking tone.  "Well, at least he lets you be the star of your own little play show every day.  It's not as though anybody actually goes to that act, anyway, so it's not much of a loss for him."

"Shut up," Sherlock said softly, his fingernails biting into the palm of his hand.

"Bet they only gave it to you because of your brother, anyway," sneered Donovan, hands on her hips.  "I bet he begged Lestrade to give his precious little brother his own show to shut him up a bit, make him feel _special_."

Sherlock gaped.  _How did they_ \- but then Moriarty's words from earlier in the week came floating back to him.   _And how is that brother of yours doing?_

"It's not as if those shows actually _matter_ ," added Anderson, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts.  The rat-faced clown seemed to be holding back laugher.  "Usually that's where he sticks the new clowns before they're ready to be in a _real_ show.  But you've been there for years!  It must be a record!"

"I am ten times the performer you'll ever be," said Sherlock, fighting to keep his voice level and temper contained, his face a mask of coolness and indifference.

"Well, it's a good thing you are, then," laughed Donovan, and Sherlock knew what was coming next.  "Because that's all you've got, isn't it?  You've got no friends.  Nobody actually cares about what happens to Sherlock Holmes.  'Cos you're heartless, and you could never care about anybody in return.  Nobody could love you."

Sherlock turned and walked away, forcing his legs to keep moving and carry him as far away from these people as they could.  He could hear Anderson and Donovan cackling behind his back like a pair of hyenas, but he wouldn't turn.  He couldn't.

 

John managed to escape from Lestrade around nine, who had been insisting on just one last run-through of the clown car act for the past hour.  After about six of these 'one last run-through's, John had slipped out of the tent, following the example of several of the other performers who had left, mumbling something about a bathroom.  John had no intention of returning to the tent that night.

John walked back to the train and took off his ridiculous costume, washing the paint off of his face and pulling on a pair of jeans and a jumper.  Sherlock was absent, and John supposed he was either practicing or off exploring somewhere.  Since the circus was open late that night, the workers were only beginning to take down the tents and clean up now.  They would be leaving early the next morning, travelling for several hours and arriving late that afternoon, where the circus would get set up once again to be ready to open the next day.

Even though it was late, John fancied a walk.  He needed to stretch his legs from being stuffed into that tiny clown car with several other full-grown men and women for so long, and he wasn't sleepy yet, especially with the prospect of being able to sleep in for most of the next day on the train.  Also, he hadn't gotten much of a chance to look at the beautiful scenery around the circus yet, and this was really his last chance before the train left and it was unlikely he'd ever see this place again.

John exited the car and strolled out across the grassy field, away from where the circus was now being dismantled.  The area really was quite pretty.  The grass was soft and lush, occasionally interrupted by small patches of purple and yellow flowers.  John passed a chestnut tree, which both seemed out of place and perfectly at home, standing alone in the field.  Had this been a forest once?  John didn't know.

The starlight wasn't nearly as illuminating that night because of grey clouds that had drifted overhead, but John didn't mind.  He just had to be more careful he didn't trip over his own feet in the resulting darkness.

John felt a raindrop hit the side of his head, and  within a few moments it had turned into a steady sprinkle.  As much as John was enjoying his walk, he wasn't keen on being soaked through and having to return to the train, wet and shivering, without the option of a hot bath.  Sighing, John turned around and began making his way back towards the train as the rain gradually fell heavier.

John saw the chestnut tree again, so he knew he was going the right direction.  But this time, he saw  something that wasn't visible from when he had approached from the other direction.  There was another shape next to the tree, one that looked like the hunched form of a person.

"Hello?" John called, but the figure didn't stir.  Was it someone from the circus?  Were they hurt?

"Hello?  Are you alright?" John called a little louder, making his way through the now steady stream of rain towards the tree.  There was no point in rushing inside now; he was already soaked through.

A few more steps closer, and John froze.

The figure curled up next to the tree was Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock had left Anderson and Donovan behind, their harsh words echoing around in his head.

_You're heartless._

_You've got no friends._

_Nobody could ever love you._

But the words weren't harsh.  They weren't harsh because they weretrue.  And in his whole life, Sherlock Holmes had never known the truth to hurt so much.

He knew he wasn't good at dealing with emotions.  He kept them inside, letting them accumulate while he kept up a careful mask on the outside, before he burst.  Various childhood therapists had told him that he just needed to express his emotions, it was healthier that way.  But Sherlock had ignored them.  Emotions were a weakness that he didn't have to display.

But now, he was reaching his breaking point again.  He could feel it.  And with every echo of Donovan's pompous voice he could feel his defences breaking a little bit more.

 _John_ , said a little voice in the back of Sherlock's mind, and the thought surprised him.  This had been happening to Sherlock a lot in the past week.  He would be in the middle of something else altogether, like eating or performing or reading, and John's face or voice or smell would appear in the forefront of his mind, accompanied by a little twinge of happiness.  It had been insufferable, but undeniably pleasant.

But now, Sherlock knew better.  He had been mistaken.  Of course John wasn't his friend.  Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends, because he was uncompassionate and rude and cruel and heartless and alone.  And once he accepted that he would always be alone, then he could return to life as usual, without John on his mind.

But the memories of John were flowing in Sherlock's rapidly crumbling mind now, John turning to Sherlock and laughing, smiling because of something Sherlock had said, brushing dust out of Sherlock's curls with that softness in his eyes...

And then Sherlock broke.  He slumped backwards against the tree he had been passing, his breath coming now in barely controlled sobs.  He couldn't even remember why he was shaking, but repressed memories and feelings started flooding over him, drowning him in every hurtful comment he had taken and hidden, in every emotion he had masked from his face.

And soon he was curled up with his arms around his knees and his face buried in his elbow, sobbing and just trying to hold himself together.  And none of it mattered, he had nothing to hide, because he was alone, and he always would be.

 

Sherlock barely noticed when it started to rain, lightly at first but then progressing towards a downpour.  He didn't mind, but simply let the cool water wash down over his face and sweep the tear tracks and residual costume makeup away.  The water blotted his clothes, soon saturating them completely and weighing him down even more.

Sherlock was no longer drowning in the sea of emotion; no, that had drained out some time ago.  Now he was just empty, not even really thinking.  Just sitting in the rain, alone.  As always.

"Hello?" Sherlock heard a voice call in the darkness.  When did it get so dark?  He didn't care.  Not his problem.

"Hello, are you alright?" the voice called again, sounding closer.  Sherlock ignored it.  It's not as though it would be talking to him.  He didn't need anyone, and nobody needed him.  Case closed.

He heard the person step closer, then freeze.

 _They'll walk away in a moment,_ Sherlock thought to himself.  _Once they realise it's just me, they'll leave.  Nobody cares about me.  And I don't care about them.  It's fine._

But the person didn't walk away, and Sherlock lifted his head with the intention of glaring at them to help them make up their mind.  But it wasn't just a person.  It was John.

"Sherlock," John breathed, his terribly expressive face mixing with confusion and concern.  But that couldn't be right.  John had no reason to be concerned about Sherlock.  No one ever did, so no one bothered anymore.

But John didn't leave.  John drew even closer, falling to his knees onto the now-muddy ground and placing a tentative hand on Sherlock's arm.  Sherlock flinched instinctively at the contact, but John didn't move away.  Sherlock could feel the warmth from John's hand as his eyes searched Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock," John said again, his eyebrows drawing together and deepening his expression of concern.  "What happened?"

Of course John could tell that something had happened.  Although he was painfully ordinary when it came to observing important details, John could read people's expressions and pick up on their feelings, when Sherlock was completely lost in the realm of emotions.

 _But really, nothing had happened_ , Sherlock thought with a touch of irritability.  _Donovan had simply spoken the truth.  Nothing that should cause alarm to anyone.  It wasn't as if I didn't already know, anyway._

John hadn't left yet.  Why hadn't John left?  Didn't he know that Sherlock was meant to be alone?  But John was just kneeling there next to him, an immoveable presence, his hand on Sherlock's arm, anchoring him there.

The rainfall grew heavier, pattering loudly on the broad leaves above their heads and managing to drip through the canopy to soak them even more.

John's hand left Sherlock's arm as the shorter man stood up.

 _He's leaving me now,_ thought Sherlock.  _He's finally realised that it's no use.  I'm a lost cause.  Good for him._

But Sherlock was startled when John's warm hand slipped into his own and tugged gently.  He glanced up in surprise and met John's pleading expression.

"Come on, Sherlock.  We're going home."

And in his surprise, Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled up off of the muddy ground and directed back towards the train.  His legs were stiff from being curled up by the tree for so long, and he hadn't realised that he was shaking from the cold.  John's arm wrapped around his waist to keep him from stumbling and falling into the mud, and the exhaustion that hit Sherlock made him too weary to protest.  He found himself leaning back into John, his head tipping sideways and nearly resting on John's shoulder as they plodded through the rain back to their car, the place where Sherlock and John both now called 'home.'

The emptiness inside Sherlock was beginning to fill up with something else, something unrecognisable to the taller man.  But he knew that Donovan was wrong about one thing.  _Sherlock Holmes had a heart,_ he thought, flicking his eyes up to glance at John's face through the rain.  _And it's right here._


	6. Chapter 6

John clutched the shaking man closer to his side as they slowly made their way through the rain. God, he had probably been out here for hours...How long would he have stayed there if John hadn't found him?

John was aching to know what had driven Sherlock to the middle of that field by himself, but knew better than to pester him with questions. Then he would just lock up even more than he was now, and would never say a word to John on the subject.

So John did what he knew how to best: he was a comforting presence, a quite literal shoulder to lean on, and he would make sure Sherlock was safe and warm inside, even if the tall man never spoke another word on the matter. John was a friend, and he was going to be there for Sherlock, no matter how he needed him.

It seemed like ages before they reached the train, and both men were properly shuddering with the cold by now. John pulled the door open and both men stumbled inside, shutting out the rain and cold behind them.

John fetched two clean towels from the bathroom and came back out, tossing one at Sherlock, who caught it but did little else with it. John towelled his short hair dry and tried to mop up most of the excess water clinging to his clothes. When Sherlock still hadn't moved, John sighed quietly, not out of annoyance, but more out of helplessness. What was he supposed to do for Sherlock? It seemed as though he had shut himself off from the world as he stood there, staring at the floor with his wet curls dripping onto his collar.

John stepped forward and took the still-dry towel from Sherlock's hand, gently starting to dry his neck and hair.

"You're going to catch pneumonia if you don't dry off soon, you git," John said affectionately, and Sherlock let out a light puff of air that could have been either disagreement or submission.

Unfortunately, the towel wasn't going to do much for Sherlock's soaked clothes, so John gave Sherlock's curls one last pat with the towel before picking up Sherlock's neatly stacked clean pyjamas on the end of his bunk and pressing them into the taller man's hands.

"Change into these and hang up the wet clothes to dry, alright? You'll be much warmer," said John with a hopeful smile in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock nodded once to show he understood. John, satisfied for the moment, grabbed his own pyjamas and retreated into the bathroom to change. When he emerged, Sherlock was thankfully dressed in his pyjamas, sitting on the end of his bed, his knees tucked up against his chest as he leaned against the wall. Even though he looked much warmer and dryer than when they had first arrived back at the room, Sherlock's eyes were still slightly red and swollen. John could tell he had been crying sometime before he found him in the rain, but he still had no idea why.

John padded over, tentatively sitting next to Sherlock on his bed, keeping a few inches between them. Sherlock glanced up at John blankly, before returning his gaze to the bedspread. John took that as encouragement.

"Sherlock..." he began slowly. "I just wanted to let you know, that if you want to talk about anything, I'll listen. That's what I'm here for. You don't have to if you don't want to, but...just if you needed someone."

It was several moments before Sherlock spoke, still staring at the small puddles of water on the floor.

"I don't need anyone."

"I know," John replied simply.

"You don't have to stay."

"I know."

The silence that followed was even longer than the previous one, but John didn't leave. He leaned back against the wall in the other corner, tucking his own knees up. He had no doubts that Sherlock would tell him if he wanted John to leave, but what was considerably less likely was him asking the other man to stay. So he would stay.

When the train jerked to life around them, pulling them away from the green landscape that had become so familiar to them, Sherlock's head lolled against his shoulder from where he had fallen into a doze. Noticing this, the corner of John's mouth lifted, and he got up to coax Sherlock down so his head was against the pillow, blanket pulled up around his shoulders, before John returned to his position at the end of Sherlock's bed, leaning against the wooden beam.

John allowed his eyes to close just for a moment, the long day naturally taking a toll on him, so it was undoubtedly a surprise when he opened his eyes to find natural sunlight streaming through the window and the train unmoving beneath him. There was also a pale, angular face in front of his, and John probably would have jumped in shock if he weren't already so disorientated and with a crick in his neck.

"You stayed," said Sherlock softly before John could even open his mouth, sitting close enough so their knees were pressed together.

"'Course I stayed," John replied, his voice thick from sleep as he yawned. He stretched slightly, blinking his eyes open to get a better look at Sherlock, but the other man was already on his feet, disappearing into the bathroom to get ready for the day. Grudgingly, John dressed - it was still early, but Lestrade would need as much help as he could get setting up in this new location. They opened that afternoon, after all.

A few minutes later, Sherlock held the door open for John with a tiny smile as he was leaving the bathroom, and John knew that they were okay.

The next few days were absolutely exhilarating for John. The new landscape was a bit colder and not quite as nice as the previous one, but had little bearing on the setup and running of the rest of the circus. He didn't see much of Jim or Donovan, for which he was thankful for. John was beginning to truly get into the swing of things, and was now performing in several of the smaller afternoon shows - although not with Sherlock quite yet, as his was the most specialized. His schedule was hectic, but John loved every minute of it. He was never bored, and found as much time as he could to spend time with Sherlock in the evenings.

Later in the week, Lestrade pulled John aside as he was bustling through the costume tent, trying to get ready in time to help out before the main performance at big top.

"I think you're ready," Lestrade told him, a touch of pride in his voice. John stared at him, utterly perplexed. Rolling his eyes at John's confusion, Greg continued. "If you and Sherlock start practicing today, do you think you'll be ready for the afternoon show on Friday?"

John's eyes widened in understanding, and he found a huge grin spreading over his face.

"Definitely," he replied, suddenly feeling very giddy, and Greg disappeared out the tent flap with an approving smile.

John ran off to tell the good news to Sherlock, and watched in delight as the other man's face lit up as well. They immediately tracked down an unused tent to practice in, Sherlock not bothering with written instructions and diagrams and simply pulling John out to the center of the tent and jumping right in. The taller man did slow down to explain some things, but mostly ploughed ahead and waited for John to catch up. And John got closer and closer every day until the act was running smoothly. John had never felt so comfortable working with someone before, as he and Sherlock communicated without words and moved around each other effortlessly in the small space.

Friday was soon upon them, and John didn't get a chance to see Sherlock at all that afternoon with the whiteface filling in at the morning shows and John helping out at big top. After eating a quick dinner, John was in the costume tent, his arms full of the various pieces of his multicoloured outfit that had been thrust at him upon his arrival when he heard his name being called. He turned around to see Sherlock struggling through the crowded tent, towering above most of the other inhabitants. He was in his whiteface performance outfit, but he didn't have his makeup on yet for the final afternoon performance.

John was just opening his mouth to say hello when Sherlock was kissing him, one gloved hand gently cupping the side of his face.

"Good luck," he said once he pulled back, eyes shining. John stared in shock for a moment before his face broke into a wide smile, heart pounding in his chest.

"Thanks," he replied quietly, watching as Sherlock's arm was grabbed by an irate-looking Molly, who was informing Sherlock that she "was supposed to have done your makeup hours ago and your show starts in ten bloody minutes..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, smiling at John as he was dragged away through the tent, and John grinned back, laughing. And then John was being ushered off to dress and get makeup done, but he was smiling the whole time, ready to go and prove himself. Because Sherlock Holmes believed in him, and what more did he really need?


End file.
